It was in the non-fiction section, set out alongside the rest of the new arrivals. Rosie wouldn't have even given it a second glance, save for what she saw on the front - a deceptively familiar face reflecting back at her from the glossy cover.

It was the face of a little girl, barely out of toddlerhood. Wild red curls framed an innocent face, still with that cherubic roundness of babyhood. Eyes the color of sea matched the blue-green tartan bow that held her hair back from her face and her skin was like milk, as flawless as porcelain. Her little ears stuck out a bit, her smile lit the page.

She read the title, her own name echoed back.

Rosie's Legacy.

She stared at it for a long time. It had to be a coincidence. There were other red haired girls in the world and other girls called Rosie too. In fact, it was quite a common name. Coincidences don't exist, someone, quite possibly herself, whispered in the back of her mind. I still don't know where I was before Mama found me.

She picked up the book, carefully, as if she thought it might burn her, and looked at the image again. The more she looked the more familiar it became.

She flipped it over and read:

Rosie-Faith MacIntosh vanished from her foster home in Glasgow, Scotland at the age of four. In what was found to be a horrific failure of the system, her foster parents were discovered to be human traffickers in disguise. Arrested but silent, they refused to speak, leaving their accomplices free to escape and Rosie gone for good. Now, some twelve years later, the brothers she left behind are the faces behind 'Rosie's Legacy' - a foundation dedicated to bettering Scotland's foster system in an effort to ensure no child is ever failed as they and their beloved sister were.

Rosie's mouth had gone dry. Scotland? Human traffickers? Brothers? The only brother she had was Henry, and she'd never been to Scotland, had she? She had no memory of it, no recollection whatsoever. But the timeline matches up. She was sixteen now, twelve years ago she would have been four. Did people remember things that happened when they were that young?

She flipped open the back cover. On the inside, there was a photograph of two identical young men with matching black curls, warm brown eyes and olive skin. One had his head resting on the other's shoulder and their hands were latched in his lap. There was a short biography in the space beneath, but she paid it no mind. All her attention was on the twins in the picture. There was something oddly, hauntingly familiar about them, like she'd seen them before; to say nothing of their shocking resemblance to her mother.

Clutching the book to her chest, she glanced around. Her mother was nowhere in sight, she'd wandered off to another part of the store. Rosie bit her lip as she wondered what to do. What would her mother think of this? She was liable to think Rosie had lost it completely and put her back in therapy. Rosie hardly remembered why she'd been in therapy to begin with, only that she had. Maybe it was best if her mother didn't know, at least for now.

She turned around and headed for the till. She could pay for the book now, it was small enough to fit in her purse. Her mother never had to find out.

The cashier took the book and scanned it, raising an eyebrow.

"You look like her." He said.

"Yeah. . .weird eh?" She smiled a fake smile and handed over an appropriate amount of cash. "Thanks."

The drive back to Storybrooke from Portland (her mother had taken her shopping for the day) was quiet. When they got home, Rosie went straight to her room and dug out the book. She stayed up late reading it and when she finally fell asleep, her dreams were disturbed by faces she didn't know and places she'd never seen. In the morning, she awoke with the roar of jet engines in her ears and the feel of a large hand clenching her wrist, holding her in place. An image of endless blue flashed behind her eyes as she opened them and she thought vaguely that it was the Atlantic Ocean. Her heart broke without her really knowing why.

It was Sunday, so Rosie alternated between reading the book and staring at the cover image. At one point, she googled the website for the 'Rosie's Legacy' foundation. On it, there were options for making donations and signing up for volunteer work at various locations across Scotland. There was also plenty of information on the cause and its backstory. There were even phone numbers listed to call if you had information on Rosie's whereabouts. Rosie did have information on her whereabouts (of course she did), but she wouldn't call any of the numbers. She doubted they'd believe her anyway, after all, she hardly believed it.

o0o

Little Rosie stood shivering on the side of a two lane road, walled in on both sides by towering cedars and red pine trees. Behind her, an unfamiliar vehicle sat firmly implanted in the undergrowth, its front end crushed against a large welcome sign. The driver lay slumped against the steering wheel, blood running down the side of his face.

Rosie was miraculously unharmed.

She took a few steps forward, her eyes tracing the dark orange line that ran across the road, perfectly in line with the sign. What sort of town marked its borders? Rosie didn't care. She couldn't read the sign, so she didn't know the name of the town. What she did know was that she was cold, and scared, and finally, had a chance to escape.

As she stepped across the line, she had the strangest feeling of stepping into another world. A rush of wind hissed passed her and there was an odd flickering light, like sheet lightning reflecting off a windowpane. The air on the other side of the painted line tickled her skin, as if it were alive in some way, curious about her.

She walked down the road, anxious to put space between herself and the wrecked car containing her quite-possibly-dead captor. The pavement was damp with recent rain and the air had a fresh, salty scent to it. Rosie knew that meant she was near the sea. They'd brought her back out to the coast then, but that did her little good. She knew she was no longer in Scotland, and judging by how long the plane ride had felt, she was very far from home indeed.

She wondered whether the place she was headed toward had an airport. She didn't think they'd let a little girl on a plane alone, no matter what she told them, but they'd probably call the police. Rosie knew that police helped lost people get home again.

Speaking of, a black and white car was coming towards her on the road from the direction she was headed in. Wherever she currently was, the police cars looked different than they did back home.

Rosie watched as the car stopped and a pretty lady with long blonde hair stepped out.

"Hey kiddo. What are you doing out here all alone? Are you lost?"

She stared up at the woman. "I need a plane." She informed her bluntly.

The woman's eyebrows met her hairline. "Oh yeah? What do you need a plane for, huh?"

Rosie bit her lip. "Tae get home. The bad men took me on a plane to get here, so I think that's how I have tae get home." She spoke in a strange, heavy accent that she was sure wasn't her own.

"And where's home?" The woman asked as she took her hand and led her back to her car.

"Scotland." Rosie responded as if this were obvious. "I'm Rosie. The bad man took me away from my big brothers."

The woman looked alarmed, and then her face morphed into something unreadable. "I'm Emma. We'll take care of you now, don't worry."

Emma drove them back into town - a little seaside town that most assuredly did not have an airport, or even any boats bigger than a few privately owned fishing vessels. They drove through the town and stopped at a big, white, house. Emma took her up to the door and rang the bell, and a beautiful woman with black hair and brown eyes that reminded her of her brothers answered.

"Hey Regina, uh. . .we have a situation." Emma started.

Regina eyed Rosie. "Who's child is this, and why do you have her on my doorstep?" She asked.

"I have no idea." Emma admitted. "I found her wandering out near the town line, on this side. I sent David back to see if there was any sign of a car, but I haven't heard back yet. Her name's Rosie and she says she's from Scotland, and that the 'bad men' brought her over on a plane, but she shouldn't have been able to cross our line, unless. . ."

"She's one of us."

Rosie woke with a start, morning light streaming into her room. She remembered that day now, hazy as it still was. They had decided she was one of them (she was) and refused to help her get back to Scotland, to her brothers, telling her she was safest here with them, that she had no blood brothers.

That wasn't true, she realized as she picked up the book and looked at the photograph of the twins in the back. Donald and Douglas MacIntosh looked more like her mother than she did.

She was still deep in thought when she headed down for breakfast, and still as she picked half heartedly at her eggs.

"Mam?" She asked, and she had never quite lost her highland lilt, not completely. "How did ye know I was me? Yours, I mean?"

Regina looked up, her smile shifting. "Your magic gave it away, but I had a DNA test done to be certain. Why?"

Rosie bit her lip. "No reason, really. Um, but you thought I was dead before I showed up here, right?"

Regina nodded, watching her. "Yes. . ."

"So. . ." She started, trying her best to be inconspicuous. "Could there be others, who you thought died, but maybe didn't?"

Regina looked briefly sick, as if she were remembering something painful. "Are you asking me if I lost children other than you?"

". . .yes." She admitted. "Did you? Please mam, I need tae know."

Regina sighed, stroking her hand through Rosie's curly hair. She nodded decisively. "You were not my first, or even my only, Rosie, you were my last. I had two full term pregnancies before you." She paused and swallowed brokenly. "Twin girls - and the second, twin boys."

Rosie's breath hitched. "Donald and Douglas." She whispered.

"What?" Her mother replied. "Where is all this coming from, Rosie?"

Rosie shook her head. "Nothing. Nowhere, I just had a weird dream last night, that's all."

"I see." Said Regina. "What was it about?"

Rosie met her gaze. "The day I arrived here."

o0o

Rosie rubbed at her eyes, stumbling as the man dragged her through the airport. He had put coloured contacts in her eyes, and dyed her hair with cheap temporary dye. Red hair and bright blue eyes were too conspicuous, they'd told her. Someone would recognize her. He had also told her to call him 'daddy' if anyone asked, but Rosie didn't want to. She knew daddies didn't hurt their children as this man hurt her, her brothers had said so.

The man dragged her past their gate, down the corridor to the plane, and Rosie stared out at it with wide eyes. She had only been on a plane once before, a small 'island-hopping' seaplane that was nothing like this. This plane was huge, with massive wings and a long line of small, round windows. There were words painted on the side that she couldn't read and when they stepped through the door, there were more seats than Rosie had ever seen in one place before.

They sat down, and when the plane took off, Rosie stared out the window. The city shrunk below her until it was nothing more than a dark stain against a blanket of green fields and rugged, barren mountains. As the land fell away altogether, giving way to the endless blue of the North Atlantic Ocean, Rosie had the sickening feeling that she would never see those mountains again.

Holding back tears, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a strip of green and blue tartan. It was a gift from her brothers - they used to tie in a bow around her head to hold back her hair - but she didn't know where they'd gotten it from.

It was her last remaining connection to her highland roots.

Rosie woke, and immediately looked at the book cover. The little girl in the picture wore a green and blue plaid bow in her hair. She ran her finger over it thoughtfully. If she had had it on the plane, then did that mean she'd had it when she'd arrived here, in Storybrooke?

She thought about it all day, trying to remember, until she finally got home from school. Her mother was still at work, so she took the opportunity to do some digging. First, she searched through photo albums. It took her a while to find the right one - some were too recent, others predated her altogether and only had Henry in them. In the pictures she found, she looked to be about six or so - noticeably older than in the picture on the book cover, but she couldn't find any younger ones. If she was six when she'd gotten here, where had she been during the two years between then and when she went missing from her foster home?

She didn't really care just then, and she supposed it didn't really matter anymore. Pushing the thought aside for later, she flipped through the pages containing the relevant photographs. She was just beginning to think she wouldn't find anything when she came across exactly what she needed.

Rosie was six years old in the picture - it was labeled - standing on the beach, staring out to sea. It was taken in profile; she wasn't smiling, looked almost sad as she clutched that telltale strip of tartan in her hands. The image spoke volumes.

Her mother had undoubtedly been the one to take the picture, she'd had to have known that her newfound six year old daughter was missing the brothers left to grieve her back in Scotland. There was simply no way she'd taken that photo, seen the look on her face and the way she held her bit of tartan and not known. So why had she allowed Rosie to forget, and what had become of the coveted tartan?

Rosie shoved the book back into its place on the shelf. Her mother wasn't home yet, she still had time. She ran upstairs, up into the attic, where boxes of old keepsakes had been packed away for safekeeping.

She tore through boxes frantically, not knowing how much time she had left before her mother got home. She discarded the ones containing Henry's things and dug through the ones containing hers. There were some old toys and books, and some clothes. Rosie dug through the box of clothes. In the bottom, she found a faded blue dress. It was tattered around the edges, a bit stained and practically shapeless from wear, but she remembered.

This was the dress she'd worn on the day she arrived, on the plane from Scotland too. She dove back into the box, yanking out bits of things and tossing them behind her. It had to be here.

It was.

Tucked under the old dress, half hidden beneath the bottom flap of the box, was a now familiar strip of blue and green tartan. Rosie pulled it carefully out, fingers brushing the soft wool as she flipped it over in her hands. There were three letters printed on the fabric in black ink: R.F.M. A tear trickled down her cheek, and before she quite realized it, she was sobbing. If the photograph hadn't been proof enough, then this was a dead give away. R.M. could have been Rosie Mills, but the F told another story.

She really was Rosie-Faith MacIntosh.

o0o

She was cold, scared. She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them, eyes on her clothes, piled several feet away in the corner of the room.

"Now be a good lass and open yer legs." A man spoke. He was fiddling with a camera nearby.

Rosie didn't budge. She didn't like this man, not one bit.

"Open yer damn legs, lassie!" He snapped suddenly, and a large, grimy hand came down on her knee, jerking it out so roughly that her hip clicked painfully. He did the same with the other before she could adjust herself.

"Worthless brat, they said you were an easy one." He dropped down on the bed. "Nae matter."

His hand grazed her thigh and she flinched. His fingers traveled further inward, toward her center. Rosie wanted to clench her legs together, but she knew better, the bruises littering her small body were testament to that.

The touching went on for some time before the nameless man all but tossed her over his knee. She struggled, knowing what was about to happen, but he held her down and slapped her bottom hard. She fell still, whimpering as she felt his hand slide between her legs again. He stroked her and she grimaced, biting her lip to stifle a cry as his finger slipped inside her. It was not the first time but it still hurt, after all she was so small.

By the time the man got up and left she was crying and sore. There was blood smeared on her inner thighs and sticky between her legs. She stared at herself, vaguely horrified.

Rosie woke with a scream on her lips and a sob in her throat. She shot up, sweaty and shaking. Had that really happened? Had she really been. . .that? But then she remembered the book. Somewhere in there it had said that her foster parents had secretly been part of a trafficking ring, criminals that had slipped in through unforgivable cracks in the system.

She got up and went across to the bathroom, feeling sick to her stomach and filthy. She splashed water on her face and ran her hands through her hair as she tried to settle her breathing. Turning off the water, she sat against the wall, head in her hands. Why did she have to remember that, of all things? But then, that was probably why she'd forgotten in the first place, after all, trauma caused the brain to lock the offending memories away.

The next day was Saturday again, it had been a week since she'd found the book in Portland. Henry had come home from College across town to visit and Rosie used it to her advantage. There was one more bit of evidence she wanted, one more thing to make it concrete.

"Henry?" She asked. "Do you have any old videos of me, from when I was little? Like maybe on your phone or something?"

Henry blinked. "Yeah, I think so, why?"

"Could I see them? I need to check something." She responded.

He shrugged. "I guess so."

They went upstairs to his room and he turned on his computer. She waited impatiently as it powered up.

"I put all the pictures and videos from my old phones on here." Henry explained as he searched through files. "Here's some." He clicked on one and the viewing screen popped up. "That old enough for you?"

The video was of her and Regina when she was six or seven. She leaned forward.

"Turn the volume up."

He did, and smiled as the video played. "You had the cutest accent when you were little. It's too bad you lost it." He said, as if he'd read her mind.

"Yeah. . ." She mumbled. "Thanks Henry."

She turned to go, but he stopped her. "Hey wait, are you alright, Rosie? You've been distant all day. And what's with the video?"

She stopped in the doorway, deer in the headlights. "Oh, n-nothing, just. . .been having weird dreams lately. Stuff that happened when I was little that I'd forgotten, that's all."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

o0o

She was sitting on the floor in a sparsely furnished room. The carpet was stained, and the only furniture consisted of a battered dresser and a mattress on the floor, made up with grubby looking bedding.

She was in the lap of an older boy. There was a second boy sitting nearby, the two were identical; curly, black hair and brown eyes and Mama's face in a boyish sort of way. The one who held her was reading from a book in a language like water over jagged stones, words that were almost familiar. She became lost in his voice, a calm, rumbling accent.

She didn't hear the door open, neither did the boys by the look of it. Heavy footsteps sounded across the floor and they both looked up to see their foster father, an unkempt man who smelled like booze and tobacco smoke. The only time he ever looked decent was when he knew their caseworker was coming by.

Now, without a word, he grabbed Rosie by the wrist and yanked her away from her brothers, dragging her from the room and down the stairs. She screamed and kicked, a seemingly unfounded fear rearing up in her chest. She could hear her brothers shouting, calling her name as they thumped down the stairs behind.

Out in the backyard, there was a man leaning against a car in the alley behind the house. Rosie was thrust at him, he took her and shoved her into the back seat.

"Where's the money?" The 'foster father' snapped impatiently.

The other man handed him a duffel bag. "Here."

Her brothers' yelling had risen to frantic screaming as the man got in the car, and she pressed her face to the window as the car pulled away and they disappeared from view.

Her last sight of her brothers was their tear streaked faces as the so-called foster father dragged them back into the house.

Rosie woke with a start, breathing hard. The image of her brother's face as that man had ripped her away from him was stuck in her mind, cold terror and heartbreak. She felt their grief as if it were her own, over a decade old and still so raw.

She didn't need to imagine what they'd gone through then. The book was painfully real in its detail, sparing little and sugar-coating nothing. They had spoken of self harm and mutual suicide attempts, of a bone-deep bitterness and self blame.

Thinking about how close they'd come to death by their own hands over her loss made her mad, and she couldn't help but blame her mother. The woman had, by all appearances, allowed Rosie to forget her brothers, knowing they were out there, alone as they missed her. If Regina had simply taken her back to Scotland or even just sent word of her being found, then it would have been okay. They could have all been a family then. But no.

Rosie sat up. Morning light filtered through her window. She knew what she had to do.